


Tasses À Thé et Le Temps

by vanderloo



Series: Univers Alternatif [5]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris, Red Dragon - Thomas Harris
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Epiosde: S03E07 Digestivo, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, M/M, Murder Husbands, Season 3, Word Count: 8k
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 09:37:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4386845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanderloo/pseuds/vanderloo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The teacup is broken.” Will says, and it feels foreign saying it aloud, feels foreign voicing thoughts he has kept hidden for so long. There is a lightness in the air, the mutual agreement of truth making it easier to breathe. In many ways, it is the first real conversation he and Hannibal have had, and poetically it will be their last. “It's not going to gather itself back together again.”</p><p>His words have the desired effect when emotion flickers across Hannibal's features, a darkness in his eyes that Will can claim as his own. His former psychiatrist knows where the conversation is going, but he surprises Will with his response. “Not even in your mind?”<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tasses à Thé

**Author's Note:**

> **Work title translation:** Tasses à Thé et Le Temps - Teacups and Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter title translation:** Teacups

In a midst of black smoke and fading embers, a teacup shatters.

Will Graham's eyes open to a familiar room on a time-worn mattress with a slim hollow in the middle where he'd spent many sleepless nights laying awake, perspiring onto the sheets beneath him. The air outside looks crisp and clean in comparison to his musky room, decorated with dust and the irrefutable ageing of his belongings. He hasn't been here in so long; he has almost buried the idea of having a home, of having somewhere stable and changeless where he can feel at peace. There is a blanket draped over his torso – itchy, uncomfortable – and it does nothing to comfort his shaking legs. Just once, just this once, Will Graham curses his eidetic memory when he closes his eyes and is unable to battle against the unwanted images which flash across his eyelids. Some are pleasant but most are not; a sick metaphor for the life he has chosen to lead. A life with a killer, a life with Hannibal Lecter.

There is movement outside, the distinct sound of gentle footsteps retreating from his front porch reaching his ears as he fights to sit up, pain burning in his torso and along his arms. He can see the snow from where he lays, half-perched in bed. It feels surreal – as if he has somehow miraculously traveled back in time to some place simpler. Before the FBI and before Jack Crawford, before everything. Before Hannibal Lecter.

His mind reels at the idea of a time without Hannibal, unease spreading through his body as the anxiety of it sets in and sends jitters across his spine, paralyzing him, burdening him and forcing him into a state of decay. His connection to Hannibal is one of many of his shortcomings, and one of his strengths; perhaps his only strength. The cannibal had dangled an elegant and grandiose life in front of Will and locked their eyes together, entwining their fingertips and mingling their lives together with a sense of youthful exuberance. And Will had been foolish and allowed it all to happen, perhaps willed it further as he descended the staircase into madness with Hannibal as his anchor. He was a rowing boat, stranded and adrift at sea, helpless and floating in circles until Hannibal offered to be his paddle. And they had sailed together across the Atlantic, half way across the world from Baltimore to Italy, one day at a time until they could be reunited.

But it isn't like that now. The honeymoon phase of their relationship is over, with nothing but the sickening scent of separation in the wind. And Will knows Hannibal can feel it too, even if he won't admit it. He can't admit it; he is as obsessed with Will as Will is with him. Completely and utterly co-dependent and lost without one another, adrift in a dark abyss of fine foods and wine and blood.

Hannibal stands in the door way, one hand on the knob and dressed in Will's coat. In another life, Will might comment on the domesticity of it, or on how it makes him feel seeing the older man wearing his clothes. His coat would smell of cheap aftershave – something with a ship on the bottle, he keeps getting it for Christmas – and the lavish cologne of Hannibal Lecter, probably mingled with sweat and blood and dust from Muskrat Farm. The harsh white light from the snow outside peers through the window panes on the door as Hannibal enters and closes it gently behind himself, face calm and calculating, but Will can see the content in his eyes. Perhaps he, too, enjoys the idea of a domesticated life.

But he can't imagine tying down the Chesapeake Ripper to a life of routine and dedication. Not in this life, but somewhere, sometime, maybe.

A small glance down at himself confirms that Will is wearing pajamas – a faded, green and blue flannel shirt and shorts, hidden beneath the blanket around his waist – and he is struck, blinded by the affection Hannibal is capable of. For having stripped him of his blood and sweat soaked clothing and into something soft and clean and comfortable, then laid him to bed with a blanket in his comatose state. Will remembers it vaguely, having been completely conscious but not entirely present; his mind has yet to fill in some of the details of their escape and their journey to his home. All he can remember is the dark and the cold, and the feel of Hannibal's arms around him as he carried him to safety, the distinct sound of hushed gunshots in his ears. Chiyoh, he imagines, and ultimately who had descended his porch steps and disappeared moments before.

There is a notebook to his right, left open on a double page and filled with equations from Hannibal's elegant hand. Will recognizes them after a beat and there is a stutter somewhere in his chest, _thud, thud_ , then, _thud_ as his heart restarts. A journal with the sole purpose of figuring out how to manipulate time and space, filled with equations on how to reverse time. Will's eyes flutter up to meet Hannibal's, who isn't looking at him in favor of picking up the notebook and tearing it away from Will's grasp before settling onto an armchair next to the bed.

Dedication might not be as far off as Will assumes.

His former psychiatrist looks worn and old, deep and dark circles around his eyes and cuts around his face and neck. His hair is disheveled and his collar is askew – is that Will's dress shirt? - but his posture is straight and elegant as always, one leg crossed over the other as he presses the notebook closed in his hands and trains his eyes on the ceiling. Will shifts on the mattress and quarrels over the decision to rise and embrace Hannibal, settling for leaning painfully against the window ledge behind him, the sharp discs of his spine digging into the wood.

“Shall we talk about teacups and time, and the rules of disorder?” Hannibal asks and his voice is the same as always – calm, quick, intelligent and most of all endearing, lips wrapping around every syllable and causing Will's head to swim. He feels like he's spilling, like his mind is overflowing with thoughts and scenarios with nowhere to go. There are no teacups remaining to pour his thoughts into inside the fragile arena of his skull.

“The teacup is broken.” Will says, and it feels foreign saying it aloud, feels foreign voicing thoughts he has kept hidden for so long. There is a lightness in the air, the mutual agreement of truth making it easier to breathe. In many ways, it is the first real conversation he and Hannibal have had, and poetically it will be their last. “It's not going to gather itself back together again.”

His words have the desired effect when emotion flickers across Hannibal's features, a darkness in his eyes that Will can claim as his own. His former psychiatrist knows where the conversation is going, but he surprises Will with his response. “Not even in your mind?”

There is a hopeful light shone on the conversation, engulfing Hannibal's words with white and Will wants nothing more than to cast shade over himself and everything around him. There can be no happy ending for them, no resolution, no redemption. There can only be pain and suffering and torture and death, surely Hannibal can see that. Their connection – obsession, admiration, whatever is best – is very much sincere and tangible, but it will not last and Will cannot continue.

“Your memory palace is building, it's full of new things. It shares some rooms with my own.” Hannibal says significantly, and Will has to avert his gaze to the blanket covering his legs, comforting him, protecting him the way that Hannibal intended. For a moment, the briefest moment, he reconsiders his intentions. Hannibal's voice is similar to a purr and it sets Will's face alight. “I've discovered you there, victorious.”

“When it comes to you and me,” Will starts, feeling the lump in his throat around the _you and me_ , “there can be no decisive victory.”

Hannibal hesitates and breaks eye contact with Will, eye line travelling down Will's form and settling on the blanket over his feet. Will is curious if Hannibal has ever been broken up with before, because essentially that is what this is, and it is what Will intends to do. He can see it in Hannibal's eyes, see it in his tensing shoulders and clasped hands, that he knows it too.

“We are a zero sum game.” Hannibal states, eyes looking back up at Will. He is sickeningly precise, understanding Will and his dynamic perfectly. He is the one who molded their friendship, after all, and Will still has reason to be bitter about it. Reason to allow it to consume him and control him but he won't, and he doesn't, because he forgives Hannibal for everything he has done and everything he will do. Hannibal Lecter is his friend, his partner, his... lover in the absence of copulation.

Hannibal is correct, of course – is it possible for him to ever be wrong? A zero sum game is what they are and what they always will be. You cannot divide by zero, both numbers must exist as equals, not curbed by one another. Equals, that is what he and Hannibal are. Equals that can never be together, regardless of how much Will wishes it to be so. The thought of life without Hannibal is nothing short of frightening, even if it offers relief and satisfaction, but he is willing to accept vague metaphors and human flesh over the calm serenity of a regular life. But he can't, he knows he can't. It isn't right. They aren't right.

“I miss my dogs.” Will says suddenly, surprising himself in the process. Hannibal's eyes follow his to the empty pet beds across the room, laying on the floor and reminding Will of the good things in his life. The things which cannot coexist with Hannibal. The man had even corrupted his dogs, his only friends in the world, by feeding them human flesh. He cannot overlook something like that; he cannot. It isn't right, he tells himself, no matter what his heart feels. “I'm not going to miss you.”

Hannibal looks at him after he exhales heavily, a look in his eyes telling him _yes you will_ , _and I will miss you._ Maybe so, but he has to do this. It's the right thing to do. He has to do what is right and not what is easy, nor what he wants. Everything he desires results in disaster, in violence and in death, the past evenings events proving it so.

“I'm not going to find you. I'm not going to look for you.” Will whispers it, voice quiet but determined, his exterior stoic and calm. His mind reels. _I love you_ , he aches to say, to tug at his hair and shake himself out of his turmoil, _I'm in love with you_. “I don't wanna know where you are or what you do.” He keeps going, unable to stop himself, filling the silence with his hurtful words to get Hannibal to go. _See?_ , his mind echoes, _We can't be together_. _You see?_ He exhales, the remainder of his words ringing true. “I don't want to think about you anymore.”

The look on Hannibal's face creates a weight in Will's throat, crushing his windpipe and strangling him, sucking the life from his body in one swift yet slow movement. It is torture purely self-inflicted, but he can and he will endure it. But not with Hannibal's face contorting as he looks away, and Will thinks he sees moisture welling in the other man's eyes, effectively crippling him inside. The older man hesitates, torn and broken both physically and now mentally. Will feels guiltier than when he murdered Garrett Jacob Hobbs. He feels guiltier than when he thought he'd killed and cannibalized Abigail. After that, after this, after everything he and Hannibal have been through together, he cannot stand to hurt him. Can't stand the look on his face, the veil lifted, the vulnerability in his eyes. The love in them.

And Will is rejecting him in the worst possible way.

“You delight in wickedness,” Hannibal says and his voice breaks, nothing but air and breath circling him and fracturing Will's heart. He watches it shatter in his mind like a fine china, a teacup inside his chest, a murmur in his heartbeat, a hole in his heart valve saved for Hannibal's touch. “and then berate yourself for the delight.”

“You delight.” Will retorts, wide eyed and shaking, his resolve gathering in pieces at his feet. _You delight_ , he thinks to say, wishes to say, should be saying, _you_ love _me and you can't admit it._ “I tolerate.”

Hannibal licks his cracked lips in response and averts his gaze once more, as if finding it difficult to look at Will right now. Will understands, he doesn't want to look at himself either, already dreading looking in the mirror once Hannibal leaves him. The older man's gaze is fixated on the journal in his hands, fingertips grazing the frayed edges from wear and tear, lips pursed. Will hates it; he hates every second if it, the way the air is tense and thickening around him, sadness and fury and regret fueling the bubble in his chest, ready to burst. Hannibal is much more composed, simply frowning into his lap and tearing Will's world apart.

“You say you tolerate wickedness,” Hannibal speaks up after a long minute, Will counting his heartbeats, “Do you tolerate yourself?”

“I'm already condemned to a life of wickedness.” Will replies, a little taken back. He'd expected Hannibal to retreat and escape. Will is letting him go, letting him go free and not robbing him of his freedom like he could do so easily. A final act of affection, his final admittance to himself of the love he feels for Hannibal.

“Condemnation isn't the same as acceptance.” Hannibal comments, and Will shifts on the mattress, swiveling his legs out of the blanket and feeling his bare feet hit the cold, wooden floor. The older man shifts slightly, or perhaps flinches, but Will pretends not to notice, mind reeling at the implication of Hannibal's words.

He is right, again. He has accepted his fate, accepted who he is and who he always will be. Wicked doesn't begin to cover it and both of them know it.

“Your acceptance has grown, Will. And it extends to myself.” Hannibal says, or rather states from where he sits, eyes downcast, digging his thumbnail into the leather of his journal. It leaves a small, crescent moon indentation on the skin and Will's brow furrows at it. _I love you_ , he exclaims internally, _let me let you go_. “I accept you, Will. And you accept me.”

“You delight in wickedness.” Will repeats. _You delight in_ me. _You love me_.

“Yes.”

“Hannibal,” Will says sternly, the use of the older man's first name causing the tension in the air to rise and the surprise in Hannibal's face is worth it. Will wiggles his toes from where he is perched on the edge of the mattress, hands on either side of him for support, fingers gripping at the sheets. His knee is barely grazing Hannibal's foot and already Will can feel the electricity surge through him. He has to regain control of the conversation before he can no longer continue. “You are supposed to leave.”

The restraint in his words causes his voice to shake around every syllable, his own voice echoing in his head and probably Hannibal's, too. _You were supposed to leave_ , he can hear himself say, followed by a grunt and the familiar _drip, drip, drip_ of blood gushing from his torso. Hannibal looks down at his hands once more, rubbing a calloused thumb across the journal absently.

“I'm curious whether either of us can survive separation.” Hannibal says, but Will hears it in his own voice and his own words, his own past haunting him.

“You're allowing rage, frustration and forgiveness,” Will says, quoting Hannibal from memory, envisioning them sitting before the Primavera, a simpler time, even if it didn't feel like it then. They had been naïve and foolish, Will had been blinded by admiration and realization of his feelings for the older man after seeing him again. “and love, keep you from thinking.”

It's out his mouth before he has a chance to think himself around it, and Hannibal places the journal back down onto the mattress before Will has a chance to calm his breathing, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

“Yes,” Hannibal says, and Will feels himself crumble at the seams, arms shaking on the bed, “I had deliberated for quite some time. In the end, it was Doctor Du Maurier who contrived my understanding.”

Will feels his face fall and his lips part, a frown marring his forehead at Hannibal's calm expression. The cannibal rises from his chair and settles down next to Will, whose knuckles turn white from gripping the sheets after the shift in weight on the mattress makes his head swim. He can hear his heart in his ears, a familiar _thump, thump, thump_. Maroon eyes are trained on him, but Will refuses to meet them and settles for staring straight ahead.

“Your understanding.” It isn't a question, because Will isn't sure he can bare to hear the answer.

“My understanding of my feelings towards you. And my understanding of your feelings towards me.” Hannibal says simply, then, “Look at me.”

Will de-liberates for the briefest of moments, thinking against it, thinking he'd prefer to rise to his feet and flee the room and allow Hannibal the freedom he is so obviously rejecting. But he doesn't in the end and succumbs to Hannibal's influence by obeying him and turning his head, looking up. Flecks of coral shine in Hannibal's eyes, light embers dance in the reflection of harsh white from the weather outside, and he has never witnessed something so captivating. Someone so beautiful and timeless. The older man smiles softly, not reaching his eyes, but it doesn't matter once there is a hand on Will's skin, a thumb sliding down his cheek and across parted, dry lips, scraping at his stubble audibly. His breath hitches in his throat; _thud, thud, thud_ , he knows Hannibal can hear it.

Hot breath against Will's face, heart in his throat and echoing in his ears, he can barely think straight, can barely hear Hannibal when he speaks, it being barely a whisper, “I love you.”

“You,” Will starts, then stops, then starts until he repeats the process and Hannibal huffs out a breath, similar to a laugh at Will's incoherence. _You love me_ , Will thinks, and Hannibal's voice is right there in his mind, taunting him, soothing him, _I do_. “You do?” He doesn't mean for it to come out as a question.

“Irrevocably.” Hannibal states, eyes focused on Will's lips. There is a beat.

Then soft lips are against Will's own and time is irrelevant, forgotten, swept under the proverbial rug along with his resolve. He dwindles into madness, hands rising to circle Hannibal's neck, pulling him along with him. He clasps his hands behind Hannibal's head to stop them from shaking, which doesn't work, but his nerves are a thing of the past. Hannibal is real and he is there in front of him, kissing him, warping his reality and transporting them to a room inside Will's memory palace. He will keep this one here, this memory of rough lips on his own, calloused hands gripping at either side of his face and pulling him closer.

There isn't much room to pull back but Will finds it and Hannibal doesn't pursue his retreating lips. Will heaves in a breath, sweat forming along his forehead and running down the back his neck, the world outside too bright for his blinking eyes. Hannibal parts his lips, as if to speak, but Will stops him by pressing their lips back together, unable to remain apart under that gaze.

When they part a second time, Will is prepared. “My understanding has been materializing for some time. But when I,” he has to pause for a breath under the intensity of Hannibal's proximity. The older man's lips brush against his cheek, scraping at stubble and sending a current of sensation down Will's spine. “when I saw you in front of the Primavera... I knew.”

“You knew?” Hannibal prompts when Will doesn't continue, but they both know he just wants to hear Will say it. And he does, because he has nothing left to lose.

“I knew I was in love with you.” Will says quietly, “That I have been for a long time.”

It feels surreal to say it aloud, to voice the thoughts he has been harboring for months and willing to disintegrate into a dark circle in his mind, vowed never to act upon them. Because Hannibal Lecter is not capable of love, he is not capable of loving anyone outside of himself. But it isn't true, and Will knows it.

The heat spreading across his cheeks and down his neck, disappearing into his flannel is familiar, a familiar warmth and feeling engulfing him, boiling into a white hot heat when Hannibal kisses him once more, his left arm circling Will's frail waist delicately. He is injured – they both are – and Hannibal is cautious not to hurt him, and that is how Will knows he is telling the truth. The care and dedication, the devotion that the older man displays for him, the need, the want, the obligation to maim and kill to protect Will is indescribable. And Hannibal's track record for protecting him is growing, conveying his love in ways that his words cannot, all the while Will had been burying his affections when he could have had _this_ a long time ago.

He had been so foolish. He has to let himself be intimate with his instincts, he thinks, smiling against Hannibal's mouth, whose response is to growl and press Will down firmly onto the mattress, marking him his, making up for all the lost time. And Will is content in losing himself to pleasure, a momentary lapse in better judgement whilst they're on the run to enjoy one another, to touch and explore one another in the same ways they've explored their minds.

“You'll come with me?” Hannibal asks between kisses, open mouthed and wet down Will's freckled neck, a hand splayed against his bruised ribs, slithered under his shirt. Will is livid beneath him, shirt crumpled and half way up his torso, revealing the bruised flesh and the healed scar from the year prior from none other than Hannibal himself.

“Where would we go?” Will breathes out, attempting to organize several trains of thought in his mind, unable to concentrate on anything but Hannibal's lips on his skin, the heat circling around his abdomen, the electric jolt of fingertips against his chest which trail down to his stomach and pause over the scarred tissue. Will's breath hitches, past aches and pains re-earthing themselves and creating a taste of copper in his mouth. The man leaning over him pauses and leans back slightly, as if to admire the patterns on Will's neck – his handiwork – before licking his lips. His hair is disheveled, and there's a desire, a _need_ in his eyes which shatters Will to the core. How long has Hannibal felt this way? How long could they have had this had he not been so careless?

“We have everywhere to go.” Hannibal says as he traces the thick scar across Will's naval with a single fingertip, the smaller man tensing beneath him, gripping at Hannibal's shoulders and digging his nails into the soft fabric of his own coat. “I would have liked to have shown you Florence, Will.”

“Too dangerous right now.” Will says automatically, looking up at Hannibal's sad smile and aching to replace it with something better. “In time, perhaps.”

“Perhaps.” Hannibal agrees, then leans down and captures Will's mouth with his own, expertly parting his lips with his tongue. Will arches beneath him, as much as his injuries allow, one hand going for the older man's hair. Softer than he thought it would be, free from product and unwashed, he tugs on it roughly and the noise it induces from Hannibal's throat, a rough grunt-turned-groan, effectively ends their discussion as Will gets his leg wrapped around the back of Hannibal's calf and uses it as an anchor to flip their positions, wanting to hear the noise again and again until it turns to music in his ears.

Hannibal looks vulnerable beneath him and Will revels in it, soaks in the feeling of having power over the other man. He truly has the upper hand, no questions asked, no doubts in his mind, and it's much more pleasurable than he imagined it would be. Lecter writhing beneath him at every touch, every kiss, every suck, every bite.

If this is madness, then Will surrenders to it, allows it to engulf him and suffocate him under the distraction of kissing and touching and caressing Hannibal Lecter's skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to come out and say how wild that episode was! So many ups and downs, it was like an emotional roller coaster that I never wanted to get off of! And that ending, poor Will. Hannibal can really be an a**hole, but it was sweet in so many warped ways. Also, Will in that episode: I never want to see you again, Hannibal, then Will in the preview: I have to see Hannibal. Make up your mind boy!
> 
> Please support Hannibal by showing your love for it on social media using the hashtag #SaveHannibal and show your support on Thunderclap to save my beloved show being cancelled permanently! And thank you to those who tweeted alongside us using #NakamaForever and got us trending in the United States! Merci et prends soin de toi!


	2. Temps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter title translation:** Temps - Time

 

 

Will Graham looks down at the tattered paper in his hands with a hubristic sense of delight, feeling the poster crinkle and fold under his iron grip. The word **WANTED** stands out to him, printed thick and white on a harsh charcoal background, gaining his attention and prompting him to accept the flyer in the first place. A young man – no older than twenty and indubitably captivated by Will's enigmatic demeanor – gives it to him in the middle of an active street, their fingertips brushing as the paper exchanges hands.

“Merci beaucoup, monsieur,” The man says politely and wipes his hands down on the green apron decorating his form, to which Will smiles and nods, accepting the wanted poster. It sports two photographs and the titles of two felons on the run, a murderous couple last spotted in the outskirts of Maryland. He is unrecognizable in the picture taken during his time in the Baltimore State Hospital; Will Graham no longer looks like himself and no longer has the anxiety or fear of being discovered. Hannibal Lecter has seen to that, shielding them away from the rest of the world, keeping them safe and secure on the run whilst they locate their bearings.

He folds the poster delicately and with care, precision learned from the best, and tucks it away in his inner breast pocket. Will now sports a longer beard – much to his own dismay in the beginning, now he favors it – to disguise the scars from Mason Verger's attempted facial replacement, and his hair is no longer a chaos of brown curls, no longer a reflection of the turmoil in his mind, now trimmed and styled, slicked back and away from his forehead. He feels overly dressed often-times with such an appearance but he has grown used to it, grown used to the reactions he receives walking the streets of France, occasionally accompanied by Hannibal. But not today, today he is without the older man's gracious presence, alone as he walks the cobblestone streets.

Three months since their departure from Maryland, three months since they were held captive at Muskrat Farm, three months since Hannibal Lecter had declared his love for Will, and three months since Will had ran away with him, away from the FBI and away from Jack Crawford. Their escape from the law has come as a shock from what he has gathered from the local news – but how reliable can the news be, really? – and the FBI are left paralyzed in a state of disbelief. But not Jack, no, not Jack Crawford; he has been privy to Will and Hannibal's relationship for a long time, and is perfectly and remorsefully aware that he is never going to see or hear from either of them again. And Will is content with this, having made his peace with himself and his decision to ultimately follow Hannibal to the end of the earth. It should sicken him, chill him to the core and make his bones rot, but it doesn't; he is immune to Hannibal's poison. For now, he thinks bleakly, making his way to a small store to purchase items for their evening meal.

A soft _ding, ding_ , sounds as he enters a small, out of the way and ridiculously overpriced fromagerie and alerts his presence to the owner who smiles in welcome. Will doesn't return the smile, settling for closing the door politely behind him. Purchasing simple items such as cheese – _époisses_ , a rare variety of French cheeses as Hannibal had eloquently informed him – at a place like this is too exorbitant for Will's tastes. He swirls saliva around his mouth to rid of the bitterness between his teeth, the elegant persona he displays cracking at the seams as he removes his clammy hands from his coat pockets and runs his fingers through his hair. Hannibal will unequivocally pay for asking Will to run errands like this.

There are labels upon labels of products which Will cannot pronounce, rows of exquisite cheese and fine wines lining the walls where he walks, shoes silent on the marble flooring. Perfect for sneaking up on someone, gutting them and preserving them, should the opportunity arise. But he has to remain focused, he is only here to observe and purchase ingredients, to scope out the environment should the need to maim and kill present itself. A necessary precaution and one Will is too familiar making, too accustomed to monitoring his exits and possible escape routes. Hannibal has taught him an abundance of things over the past months but the emphasis on maintaining their freedom is something that has been singed into Will's mind, the gravity of his decisions weighing heavily on his shoulders. One slip up and whatever he and Hannibal Lecter ever hope to have can be taken from him, snatched away, ripped from his tense hands.

The thought of being without his paddle, his partner, the one thing rooting him to this world and not the next is both disconcerting and upsetting and not something he wishes to go through.

“Bon soir,” Will greets the man behind the counter – old but polite, with wrinkled skin from overexposure around his eyes – and places a bottle of wine onto the counter he has picked up from the cabinet to his left. A red Bourgogne, nothing extravagant, but he figures Hannibal will appreciate the surprise; a glass of wine allows Will to digest the meat of the evening without intestinal complaint. He orders the cheese politely, words rolling from his tongue in a dignified manner. "Époisses, s'il vous plait, monsieur."

"Un instant, monsieur Wyman," The man behind the counter falters momentarily, stumbling over Will's title – an alias selected by Hannibal to suit his own – as he recognizes him. From where, Will isn't entirely sure, but the employee is undeniably intimidated by him and Will is content in leaving it this way. He and Hannibal Lecter – now James and Lloyd Wyman, wealthy business partners in the small department of Côte-d'Or – have gained a reputation within the community as two of the more affluent bachelors in town, untouchable by most given their private nature. An extravagant facade by day, a monstrous reality by night, and Will won't have it any other way.

The man serving Will returns to the counter with a small, circular block of cheese and begins the task of wrapping it delicately in brown paper, tying a piece of string cautiously around it and decorating it with a bow. A _bow_ for cheese. Will lets his eyebrows raise in surprise, to which the man huffs out an uncomfortable laugh and asks, "Comment va votre mari?"

 _How is your husband?_ Will feels himself heat up from inside out, color spreading across his skin and reaching the back of his neck. He and Hannibal have attended numerous cocktail parties amongst high class social circles upon the older man's insistence that they _make an impression_ , but Will is yet to warm up to the idea of being the spouse to a murderous sociopath. A charming, handsome and irrevocably captivating sociopath at that, well liked and admired within their community. The notion settles in Will's stomach uncomfortably, rippling whenever he shifts his feet, making his heart flutter and sucking the air from his lungs.

"Il va bien, merci," He manages, forcing himself to remain polite when handing over an obnoxious hundred euro bill. And it is true, Hannibal is very well and content in with their new lives, albeit marginally paranoid of the police in the area. Will wishes he could share his calm and collected demeanor, because as much as it is easy to fake on the outside, on the inside his mind is reeling. As capable as they are in a pair, if they get cornered whilst alone they can be captured and used against the other, which isn't an option. Will can't imagine Hannibal being arrested and used as a tool to get to him, for Hannibal to be harmed in some way which forces Will's hand. It can't happen, and Will won't let it.

The stroll back to his apartment is long but quiet, peaceful as the cool night air douses the fire in his mind, smothering any doubt and suffocating his apprehension, replacing it with the anticipation of returning to Hannibal. He carries the wine and cheese in one arm, sealed in a brown paper bag, and keeps his head down, focusing on the worn cobblestone beneath his feet. Some passers by stop and say hello, or some wave to which he politely returns the gesture, bidding them a good evening, a sweet nothing with no heart behind it. He only has to put up his facade a moment longer before can shed his person suit and be the person he wants to be, and the person Hannibal wants him to be.

The apartment is empty when he gets inside, no sound but the crackle of flames in the fireplace to his left. Hannibal isn't home yet which suits Will just fine, some time to himself might do him some good. There's a small twinge in his heart, a tug at the back of his mind making him wonder where the other man is, an urge to pertain about his whereabouts, but he dismisses it. He's as attached to Hannibal as he is to his dogs, but he can't keep a constant eye on him as much as he might want to. He places the wine on top of a small table at the edge of the room where Hannibal can see it when he enters, heavy feet on the wooden flooring, smiling at Will in a way that Will knows is going to be the death of him some day.

Their home is as elegant as Will would allow, Hannibal having capped his expectations and came to an agreement with him that they did not have to live extravagantly, and if they did it would only attract attention. Will is still baffled that he managed to convince Hannibal of that one, really, but part of him wonders if the older man only humored him simply because he knew Will would eventually come around. Like he always does, like he always will. There are paintings decorating the walls, some that Will can recognize and some that he can't, and dark maroon colored wooden flooring in which Will can see his reflection. The kitchen and dining area share the same space, a small bar being the only thing which differentiates the two rooms – Hannibal had been in charge of the kitchen, naturally, therefore it is nothing short of breathtaking, and somewhere Will feels out of place and anxious without the older man by his side. He keeps the époisses wrapped in its packaging, a gift for Hannibal, and places it in the refrigerator, narrowly dodging the shrink wrapped flesh on the shelf. He is in the midst of pouring himself a glass of water – after discarding his overcoat, leaving the wanted poster inside – when he hears the front door open, the familiar jingle of keys and footsteps accompanying it.

Hannibal is dressed in a chequered beige suit and tie, hair slicked back and twisted elegantly as if he hasn't just been outside in the humidity. Will takes a small, bitter sip of his water as he watches the older man emerge and put his coat on the hanger next to the door, pausing to neaten Will's own coat where it hangs. The older man's scars have healed nicely, no permanent damage to his face or neck, which is more than can be said for Will, but he isn't bitter about that. Hannibal had saved him from a far worse fate than a simple facial scar, and he is grateful for that.

“Bonsoir,” Hannibal announces as he comes further into the apartment, pertaining to Will's whereabouts, mouth shaping the words perfectly and making Will take another sip of water. Hannibal smiles when he sees him as if he is pleased by the sight, not entirely sure he would be there. It has been a common occurrence for Hannibal to perhaps underestimate Will's attraction to him. He couldn't flee if he tried.

“Bonsoir,” Will responds before clearing his throat and leaning back against the kitchen counter as Hannibal steps closer to him. It's only now that he can see Hannibal is holding the bottle of wine Will had left for him, a soft smile on his lips that creates the familiar _thud, thud, thud_ in Will's ears.

“Bourgogne,” Hannibal responds, placing the wine bottle onto the bar and turning it until Will can read the label, “A fine choice. May I inquire as to the occasion?”

“No occasion,” Will says, downing the remainder of the liquid in his glass and wishing there were more so he could excuse himself from socializing. He had picked up the wine as a gift, being slightly agitated when he bought it and now, now he doesn't know how to explain himself. “I thought it would be nice to have a glass before dinner.”

Hannibal observes him for a short moment, a small quirk in his lips as his fingers ghost the edge of the bottle. Will feels himself crumble under his gaze, feels his palms sweat and tingle until he has to place his empty glass down onto the counter beside him and rub his hands on his trousers. He and Hannibal have been together, _together_ for over three months and still there isn't a day where the older man ceases to keep Will on his toes, coaxing him into an internal turmoil, turning him into putty under his hands. Hannibal appears to read his train of thought because he takes a step back – not what Will wants, not at all – and creates space between them – also not what Will wants.

“It would be nice,” Hannibal responds finally, a lightness in his tone, emphasis on _would_ , “If you open the bottle, I'll fetch the glasses.”

It apparently isn't a question because Hannibal disappears into the dining area, opening an antique case where the wine glasses are kept without so much as a second glance at Will. But Will is grateful for it, grateful for no witnesses to his breakdown, his firm grip on the counter and his fumble through a drawer until he finds the corkscrew. To his surprise and relief, he opens the bottle without any mishaps, no spilled wine on his dress shirt and none on the counter. Hannibal pours them two well-measured glasses of red wine and Will watches as it swirls in his glass, stressing the image of the blood pooling from Abigail's neck in his mind, onto the kitchen floor, spraying under his hand as he tries so desperately to stop it. His hand shakes as he picks up his glass. There is no toast.

Lecter swirls the liquid around elegantly, watching Will with a cautious eye which the younger man avoids. “You seem afflicted, Will.”

Afflicted would be putting it lightly, he thinks bitterly, taking a sip of the wine and savoring its taste. Exquisite as always with Hannibal's appreciation for fine dining, but Will does his best not to warm to the pleasantries, too acclimatized to the disappointment in his life before he met his estranged psychiatrist. Now they simply have conversations, among other things.

“I have to show you something,” Will says, thinking of the piece of paper inside his coat. He places his glass down onto the bar and abruptly leaves the kitchen, much to Hannibal's surprise. But he isn't thinking about being rude, and doesn't intend to be, since the matter at hand is a little more pressing than offending Hannibal's preference for good manners. He fetches the poster out of his breast pocket and returns to the kitchen to find the older man now perched on a bar stool, unbuttoning his suit coat so he can sit properly. Will hands him the poster silently, their fingers brushing much like his had with the man on the street, but this time the electricity causes Will's hand to jerk and retreat. Hannibal doesn't seem to have noticed, or pretends not to.

“Were you recognized?” Hannibal inquires instantly, eyes on Will and not on the paper in his hand. Will shakes his head stiffly once, no, which Hannibal seems to accept and returns his eyes to the wanted poster, “Our presence here may become the topic of scrutiny, should people put two and two together.”

Will nods and runs a hand through his hair, hating the way his fingers come back slightly sticky from the product there. There is a tensing in the air, a heat bubbling within him at the thought of being a fugitive for the rest of his life. The idea is distasteful and frightening, and he has a sudden admiration for the man before him who has been a fugitive for almost a year now, with Will only joining him in the past months. But they are in it together now, and Will has never been more grateful to have his paddle.

“I'll look into possible areas to relocate in the mean time.” Hannibal continues, although it is obvious that the idea of relocating isn't what he wants to do. They have made a home for themselves in this small department of France and Will can understand his irritation, but if they must, they must. Their freedom is undoubtedly more important than their comfort. The older man folds the poster deftly and places it onto the bar before returning his gaze to Will, who shifts slightly from foot to foot.

There's an echo somewhere in the recess of Will's mind, taunting him, calling him to the darkness that he so often runs from, the familiar _drip, drip, drip_ ringing in his ears. But he knows it isn't really there, and that the noise is only in his head, the remnant of a painful memory which tainted his fragile psyche. There is no danger here, nothing to threaten him and no one to harm him, no one but Hannibal Lecter who is now rising from his seat, taking a small step towards Will.

The older man rises his hands to Will's hips and rests them there, watching him for a silent approval, permission to continue, and it is so intimate and amiable of the older man that Will sighs into the embrace and grips at Hannibal's biceps under his suit coat, rooting his fingertips into the fabric and tugging. Will welcomes the contact, cherishes and melts into the feeling of proximity, another body against his own, sharing heat and breath and making his legs feel like they're liquefying. Hannibal's eyes are soft and caring and make Will want to punch him in the face to spite him for doing this to him, for condemning him to a life on the run with a cannibal, for causing him to fall in love with him.

“Your pulse is racing,” Hannibal says from somewhere near Will's ear, ripping him from his reverie and returning him to the present. Hannibal is nosing along his jaw, inhaling deeply and creating goosebumps across Will's freckled skin. He tilts his head to the side and exposes the pale flesh of his neck, giving the older man more room to touch him, and wraps his arms around Hannibal's shoulders with a soft grunt.

“Your doing,” Will admits quietly, though it's not entirely true and Hannibal probably smells it on him, but it's the only answer he can give. His mind is torn, shattered into fragments with the way Hannibal mouths along his neck leaving small nips on his skin, lips brushing against the product of a month absent of a razor. His heartbeat dances in his ears and creates a bass in his chest, the dull orange flickering from the fireplace blurring behind his eyelids as he succumbs to the familiar touch of Hannibal. The older man tightens his grip around Will's form, a strong and capable arm circling his waist, a large hand on his neck in a gentle gesture which could so easily be turned violent should Hannibal constrict Will's larynx, a thumb against his windpipe. A painful way to go but Will trusts Hannibal, he won't kill him, he _can't_ kill him even if he wants to. Hannibal is as ensnared in Will's web as Will is in his.

Poetic, in their own twisted way.

“Would you be objective to the idea of dessert anterior to dinner?” Hannibal asks, _purrs_ in Will's ear. There's the familiar _thud, thud, thud_ sounding in his head, the banal lump in his throat, the shiver ghosting down his spine until all the can do is simply shake his head. No, no he would not have a problem with that, his appetite pushed to the back of his mind and replaced with _need,_ the ache to be touched, to feel Hannibal under his palms. They have been intimate on more than one occasion during their escape, but each time poses something new for Will, another obstacle to climb over before he can become comfortable. Hannibal is capricious in his actions, in his movements, with the way he watches Will when they are together, legs entwined and pressed into damp sheets.

There is a creak in the floorboards, the sound of movement until Will registers that it's his own feet causing it and Hannibal is pushing him backwards in the direction of their bedroom, pressing their mouths together tenderly, almost painfully sweet yet salty, an honest measure of bitterness in their actions. Hannibal's hands leave Will momentarily, but he deepens the kiss whilst discarding his suit coat and throwing it gracefully – really, how the man manages to throw things with elegance is beyond Will – and returning his talented fingers to Will's body.

Articles of clothing are removed, attentively on Lecter's part, hasty and fumbling on Will's until Lecter pushes him down onto the mattress, a welcoming change from the times they hadn't made it to the bed. A day of frustration causes nails to scrape and teeth to bite, exciting the grunt from Hannibal that Will has been waiting for, the sign of vulnerability that he can use to his advantage. He manages a growl, sounding strangled and closer to a hiss, then hooks his calve around Hannibal's knee and uses it as an anchor to flip their positions. Lecter's eyes are glassed over but fully open and staring at Will with an affection he can't begin to comprehend. Will kisses him simply because it seems like the right thing to do, enjoying the way Hannibal writhes beneath him, hands raking down his back and settling on his backside, pushing Will upward and further into the kiss.

They fumble routinely, skin pressed flush against one another, sweat and heat filling the room and saturating the air, creating specks of moisture on the window pane. Hannibal leaves soft, tender kisses down Will's naval, tongue working at the grim line of torn flesh across his torso, an apology, a forgiveness, a tenderness which Will cannot stand. Will licks a line from Hannibal's jaw to his collarbone, bites down on it, nips and sucks and kisses until a pattern forms across his skin, his own canvas that he is miraculously allowed to decorate without complaint. They have come a long way, at times feeling helpless and crumbling, but bouncing back victorious and _happy_. Will Graham can't imagine a more contented circumstance, and he doesn't attempt to, settling for allowing Hannibal the upper hand he craves, succumbing to the pleasure and arousal fighting for control of his mind.

“I will never tire of doing that,” Hannibal says once Will is able to count the stars under his eyelids, chest heaving and body twitching under the gentle caress of his inner thigh, basking in the afterglow.

Will offers him a small quirk of his lips, opening his eyes and watching as the world returns into focus. “Disregarding dinner and high tailing it to dessert?”

Hannibal is half hovering over Will, propped up on his elbow with his free hand cupping the back of Will's thigh, keeping his body angled towards him. Possessive, manipulative, and everything that Will craves from him. The older man smiles softly and leans down to capture Will's lips with his own, savoring their contact, prolonging it and eliciting a soft sound from the back of Will's throat. It's only then that he pulls away and says, “You were never fond of dessert.”

“Acclimatized to bitterness as opposed to something sweet,” Will replies, not realizing how much truth rings in his words until they escape his mouth. It is true, or it was, Will was used to the disappointment and horrors of his life, too wrapped up in his own sadness and loneliness that he never allowed something soft and sweet to touch him. Until now, arguably.

“I hope that, in time,” Hannibal pauses to carry out the act of trailing his fingers from Will's leg to his stomach, ascending his chest and resting where his heart threatens to escape his rib cage. Breath escapes Will's lungs on its own accord and he looks up at Hannibal's amber eyes, a small tint of orange in them from the light outside, “that I'll be able to oust the acidity in your mind.”

Will observes the way Hannibal's fingers twitch on his chest, monitoring his pulse and suffocating him with the intimacy of the gesture. _You delight in me_ , he thinks, _you_ love _me_. The concept is as surreal as it was three months ago under the dim lighting of his little house; far, far away now, a passing ache in his heart. Will allows his fingertips to brush Hannibal's hand over his beating heart, letting his eyes soften.

“You already did.” He says, and delights in the way Hannibal's smile reaches his eyes, creating wrinkles at the edge of his eyelids from past stress and torture and turmoil, everything which Will soaks up and takes from him so he won't need to feel it any more. They are together, here, in their small and private place in the world, the air around them warm in comparison to the air outside, heating up Will from head to toe as he and Hannibal kiss once more.

For once, he thinks, he will kill to protect what he and Hannibal have here. Without hesitation, he will kill for what they have built together, kill for the fort inside Will's mind which allows him to be with Hannibal. Without hesitation.

_fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the introduction of the Red Dragon arc last night, I wanted to get this chapter up ASAP! A big thank you to those who helped us trend in the United States last night using #BeholdTheRedDragon! We trended 11 minutes into the broadcast - a record! I would love to see Will and Hannibal working together from afar to catch the Red Dragon, that would be so very interesting to see, but only in my dreams. I hope everyone enjoyed this short little fic! Merci et prends soin de toi!
> 
> The original wanted poster is from this [post](http://danish-cravings.tumblr.com/post/80241519367/).
> 
> Translations (in case anyone would like them):  
>  **Merci beaucoup, monsieur** : Thank you very much, sir  
>  **Époisses** : A small variety of French cheeses from the commune in the _Côte-d'Or_ department in eastern France (where Will and Hannibal relocated)  
>  **s'il vous plait** : Please  
>  **Comment va ton mari?** : How is your husband?  
>  **Il est bien** : He is well  
>  **Bon soir** : Good evening


End file.
